Cents and Sensibility

I was just reading the card for about the twenty-fifth time – ‘Nice story this morning. Dinner tonight? J xxx, I was up to three kisses, excellent – when I became aware of a commotion going on over on the other side of the office.

‘Is this your name?’ a voice was asking in raised tones. An unmistakable voice, with a strong Scottish accent, punctuated by the sound of a fist hitting a newspaper. ‘Is this your bloody name? Did you write this? Did you put this filth in my paper?’

It was Doughnut and he wasn’t happy.

I had to look. I might have been the fluff correspondent, but I was still a newspaper reporter – and needing to know what is going on, when it is absolutely none of our business, is a trait that unites us all. I raised myself gingerly from my seat and peeped over the partition.

‘Uh-oh,’ said Peter, the writer who had the desk nearest me. ‘Someone is seriously in the soup. Can you see who it is, Stella dear? Your eyes are younger than mine and so much more acute.’

‘Oh, sod off, Peter,’ I said. ‘You just don’t want to get caught rubbernecking. I can’t see from here actually. I’ll make a tactical trip to the loo and report back.’

I strolled casually over to that side of the office, just in time to see Doughnut, alarmingly red in the face, shredding a copy of the Journal in front of someone’s head. The object of his fury had his back to me, so I couldn’t see who it was, but it was male and youngish.

‘If you want to write excrement like that,’ Doughnut was saying, ‘I suggest you go and work on The Daily Tits, because you don’t belong on my paper.’

I dodged into the loo as he stomped past me, his ginger eyebrows meeting above his nose in a chevron of fury. I was followed in by Rita, one of the features subs and a fabulous gossip.

‘Hooeee,’ she was saying. ‘That was a scorcher. Poor bugger.’

‘What was the problem?’ I asked, continuing our conversation over the partition between the cubicles.

‘Did you read that story in features today about Essex girls who are into customizing cars?’ said Rita. ‘That guy Ned wrote it and he used the word “tits” in it – and not in a quote. Somehow it got through subs, and Doughnut read it this morning and nearly had a fit over his croissant.’

‘Ouch,’ I said. ‘Is he new? This Ned?’

He had to be. Anyone who had worked on the paper for any time at all, knew that while his own language was richly peppered with obscenities and profanities, Doughnut was obsessive about keeping up what he called ‘Empire standards’ in the paper. He was a stickler for grammar and correct usage, and manically against the use of ‘vulgarities’. ‘Tits’ was a major vulgarity misdemeanour.

He didn’t have a problem with maverick creative flair – Doughnut was a great champion of originality and had nurtured some of the brightest writing talents in British journalism – but he felt that being amusing without resorting to base language was part of the challenge.

‘He’s been here a couple of weeks, but I don’t reckon he’ll be asked to stay after his trial period now, do you?’ said Rita, who loved office dramas more than anything. ‘He’ll be just another notch on Doughnut’s sacking sword.’

I nipped back to my desk to tell Peter the news.

‘Poor fellow,’ he said. ‘And a shame, because I think he’s got promise, that young man. I liked that piece, it was an insight into a subculture I didn’t know about, although I did baulk at the word in question myself when I read it this morning.

‘Although, of course,’ he continued, leaning back in his chair and fixing me with a gimlet stare over his bifocals and down his bony nose, ‘the person Duncan should really be telling off is not the young writer, but our dear features editor, is it not? Did she not read the piece in question? Is it not her job to do so, when it is to appear in the section which she allegedly edits? It is, indeed. But no, she did not read it and she has allowed someone else entirely to take the blame – and that is business as usual round here these days, is it not, my dear girl?’

I smiled indulgently at Peter. He went on like a pompous vicar, but I loved him dearly. It was a privilege to sit next to him. He’d worked for the paper for over four decades, from when it was still on Fleet Street and the type was set each day by hand in hot metal, on printing presses housed in the basement below the editorial offices – another age, really.

He had a block of old metal type spelling out his byline – all back to front, of course – on his desk, next to his manual typewriter.

He still did all his writing on that old thing – with multiple carbon copies – and then had one of the editorial assistants type it into the computer for him. It was against all the rules and the clattering of that old Olivetti had driven me nuts at first, until it became part of the general hum of my working day, but everyone made allowances for Peter.

He was a legend on the paper. He’d actually been editor of it at one point, and news editor and letters editor and obituaries editor and features editor, as well as doing practically every kind of reporting; he could still do shorthand at 150 words a minute. And after all that, he had earned his current privileged position quietly turning out just one perfectly written opinion column a week and the odd feature, as it took his fancy.

Some of the younger journalists thought he was a has-been old windbag and couldn’t stand him, but I adored him. He’d taken a liking to me, for some reason, when I’d first arrived in the features department as a trainee, and I strongly suspected I had him to thank for being offered a full-time job on the paper.

Only two of us, in my group of eight graduate trainees, had been asked to stay on and when I ended up sitting in the desk next to him, I don’t think that was a coincidence either.

In fact, I knew Peter had a lot more influence with Doughnut than most people realized. But even more importantly than that, there was so much you could learn from him, if you only listened – because you don’t survive in newspapers for forty years without being pretty smart.

‘Shall we take that unfortunate chastised young man out to lunch, Stella?’ he said suddenly. ‘Cheer him up. You go over and ask him. A friendly face is what he needs to see right now – and one as pretty as yours will be particularly welcome, I should think.’

I didn’t particularly want to – I had my celebrity brands piece to finish and when I didn’t have an unavoidable work lunch to go to, I preferred to stay in the office – but I had learned it was worthwhile going along with Peter’s ideas. There was usually something interesting at the bottom of them.

Whatever this was about, Ned Morrissey seemed delighted when I appeared at his desk and asked him out for lunch. I didn’t couch it in general terms, there wasn’t any point, I just came out with it.

‘Hi, Ned,’ I said to him. ‘I’m Stella Fain. I write all the luxury fluff in features. We all heard the hard time Doughnut gave you just now, and Peter Wallington – you know, the op ed columnist? – and I wondered if you’d like to come out for lunch with us today. Shiraz and sympathy and all that…’

‘Hi, Stella,’ said Ned, in a broad Australian accent I hadn’t been expecting. ‘I know who you are. That was a very nice news story you had in the paper last week about Jericho. She sounds like a silly cow. I’d love to have lunch with you and Peter Wallington. The man’s a legend. Shall I come over to your desk at one?’

I nodded and went back to my desk, rather amazed. He was so relaxed. I’d been expecting a human jelly, in pieces after what had happened to him, but he didn’t seem remotely fazed, either by Doughnut’s tongue-lashing, or by my sudden invitation.

Now I could see why Peter was interested in him.

‘Thanks for the beautiful flowers,’ I said right away. ‘They’re gorgeous.’

‘I’m glad you like them. I got them from my mom’s favourite London florist. I thought it was more your style than one of those trendy places with green flowers like sputniks.’

‘Your mother has excellent taste,’ I told him.

‘So, do you like Italian food?’

‘I love it,’ I said carefully. ‘But I can’t have dinner tonight, Jay. I’m busy.’

I wasn’t. I had no plans that night beyond painting my toenails pink. I was just playing games with his head.

He said nothing and I was suddenly worried I had pushed it too far, but I couldn’t go back now.

‘Well, I can’t do tomorrow,’ he said, flatly.

Immediately I wanted to ask him why not? Who was he seeing? Where was he going? Shit.

‘Can you do Wednesday night?’ he asked eventually, although I definitely detected a note of irritation in his voice.

‘Yes,’ I said enthusiastically. ‘I’d love to. Where shall I see you?’

‘I’ll pick you up. What’s your address?’

I couldn’t give him my address. Nobody came to my place, not even my girlfriends. He’d already invaded my territory hugely coming down to Willow Barn like that, and he certainly wasn’t getting inside my secret little nest so easily. I gave him the address of Ham’s house.

‘It’s my father’s London place,’ I explained. ‘That’s where I’ll be.’

‘Great,’ said Jay. ‘And Stella – don’t cancel me, OK?’

I giggled a little, I couldn’t help myself.

‘I won’t,’ I promised.

I strongly suspected he was on to me.

‘So, Ned,’ said Peter, as we settled into his table at Gino’s, the Italian trattoria that had opened expressly to service the staff of the Journal, when the paper had moved to docklands from Fleet Street twenty years before. Peter ate lunch there every day – having the same wine and the same food at the same table.

‘Tell me why you used the word “tits” in your piece,’ Peter continued, nodding at the waiter to fill our glasses with his usual Amarone. ‘I thought it was a bold, and rather unnecessary, inclusion when I read it – in what was a very good piece of reporting. I could tell you had entirely won the trust of those young women you interviewed. How did you do that, by the way?’

‘I wore a tight shirt,’ said Ned, without blinking.

Peter and I both roared with laughter. Ned cracked a small smile, but I knew he wasn’t joking. I glanced at his chest. He was a pretty beefy guy. I hadn’t noticed at first.

‘Oh, that’s marvellous,’ said Peter. ‘But, go on, tell me why you felt it was appropriate to use the word “tits”, when it wasn’t a quote and really wasn’t germane to the build of the story.’

‘Do you really want to know?’ said Ned.

‘I do,’ said Peter.

‘I wanted to see what Duncan McDonagh would do.’

Peter was lost for words, which was a first in my experience.

‘I’ve heard so much about his famous scary temper,’ continued Ned. ‘And I just wanted to see how bad it was, in case I ever want to do something really naughty. I didn’t think “tits” would get through the subs, but I tried it anyway and it did.’

Peter was looking at him so sharply now, his bony old nose looked like an eagle’s beak.

‘How interesting,’ he said eventually. ‘And where did you work before you came to the Journal?’

‘At The Age, in Melbourne.’

‘Are you political?’ asked Peter bluntly.

‘Is this a job interview?’ said Ned. ‘I thought we were just having lunch.’ His face cracked into a smile that made deep lines appear on either side of his mouth. He wasn’t handsome exactly, but he had an interesting face.

Peter softened his expression again, but the steely look didn’t go out of his eyes. He didn’t ask Ned any more of his very direct questions, but by the end of the lunch, they both knew a lot more about each other.

‘Where did you do your training, Peter?’ Ned asked him.

‘At the Journal, of course,’ said Peter. ‘Like young Stella here, but an awfully long time ago.’

‘How long have you been at the paper, Stella?’ he asked me. He had green eyes, I noticed. Very green eyes. As he looked at me steadily, I could see why those Dagenham girls had let him into their hot rods. He was charismatic, that was the only word for it.

‘Gosh, it’s over five years already,’ I said. ‘I came as a graduate trainee, as Peter said, and I’m still here.’

‘Didn’t you ever want to go and work anywhere else?’

I hated that question, it made me feel like a loser, but Peter answered it for me.

‘Why leave when you’re already established on the world’s greatest newspaper?’ he said, like the true Journal man he was. For him there was no other paper. The others were only good for lining hamsters’ cages, as he often said.

‘To get broader experience,’ said Ned, looking him straight in the eye. He was fearless. He was rattling Peter and he knew it.

‘An admirable intention,’ said Peter, in his most patronizing tone. ‘But if you resigned from the Journal you could never expect to come back. Certainly not while Duncan is still editor. He prizes loyalty as much as he does hard work and flair. You’d be stuck on a lesser masthead, reading the Journal every morning and feeling forever slightly on the outer. I’ve seen too many smart people do that. They get very bitter.’

I could see Ned taking note.

‘Thanks, Peter,’ he said. ‘That’s really good advice. I appreciate that. But there must have been a lot of attempts to poach you over the past forty years.’

Peter smiled. He was being flattered and he didn’t mind.

‘Yes. The BBC – radio, of course – was the only offer which tempted me, but I declined. I’m a newspaper man to the bone – and I rather suspect you are too.’

They smiled at each other. It was a meeting of minds.

He’d stayed for a few minutes, being very nice to Chloe and Daisy – Ham wasn’t there, to my great relief, he’d gone to Stockholm to give a lecture – and then he’d whisked me off in that silly car to the River Café. Which just happens to be my favourite restaurant.

Then we pretty much sat there and beamed at each other across the table. I could hardly eat, which was a shame, considering how great their food is, and I could hardly drink which was also a shame, because Jay had ordered some pretty serious wine. Really, I just wanted to sit and gaze at him.

‘Hello,’ he said, suddenly, when we’d been holding eye contact for ages, like a couple of love-struck teens. Then he reached out and took my hand, blinking at me slowly like a contented cat.

‘Hello,’ I said back, softly, not caring how soppy I sounded.

‘There’s something between us, isn’t there, Stella?’ he said, quietly.

I nodded.

‘I don’t normally sit and stare at people I’m having dinner with, do you?’ he continued.

I shook my head.

‘Just checking,’ he said. ‘And here’s another thing I want to check – you’re not going to run off to work on me tonight are you?’

I shook my head again and he smiled at me, so sweetly, I almost couldn’t bear it. I always found it disarming when I saw that side of Jay. There was something about the combination of that gentle sweetness with his smoothie James Bond good looks that just did me in.

‘You know, Stella,’ he said, after a moment. ‘This is amazing food and all, but I find I’m not real hungry right now. Shall we split?’

I nodded my head. I didn’t care about playing the game any more. It was time to go with my feelings.

So I did. I went with Jay, in his ridiculous Thundberbirds car, back to Chelsea, to a huge flat on Sloane Avenue. Where we made love all night.

And it was like that, it was making love and all that corny old stuff, it wasn’t just hot sex. Which is what it would have been, I thought, if we’d gone for it that first night – or morning – in the South of France, but in the days since then, something had grown between us and expressing it together, at last, was a beautiful thing. Not to mention supersonically orgasmic.

Eventually, Jay went off to sleep, but I couldn’t. I lay awake for what seemed like hours, just looking at him and thinking. I must have dozed off eventually, though, because I was woken by light coming through a small chink in the heavy brocade curtains of his bedroom. He was still out, like an exhausted puppy sprawled across the huge mattress of his four-poster bed.

I had been surprised by that bed, when I saw it, as I was about everything in Jay’s place. I’d expected him to live in some kind of groovy loft, all mid-century furniture and modern art, the flat equivalent of his car, but this place was more like something out of Harry Potter, with wood panelling and Persian rugs, huge stone fireplaces and the four-poster. There were even paintings of horses and dogs on the walls.

He’d smiled, when I’d expressed my surprise, the night before.

‘Well, I didn’t decorate this apartment myself,’ he said. ‘My grandmother did, but I like it like this and anyway, it doesn’t matter, because very few people see it. I don’t bring people here.’

He pinched my cheek.

‘I’m honoured,’ I said, thinking how alike we were in that regard.

‘No, I’m the one who’s honoured,’ he said and he pulled me into his arms. ‘And now I’m going to be honoured all over again.’

When the chink in the curtains was clearly full daylight, I leaned over and woke Jay up with a kiss. He was smiling before he had even opened his eyes.

‘Hello, beautiful girl,’ he said, rolling over and kissing me tenderly on the forehead. ‘It’s good to see you. Do you like daylight at this time of day, or are you the vampire type?’

‘Daylight,’ I said, firmly. I had no blind on the skylight in my bedroom at home, and I liked being woken up by the sun.

He reached for a remote control by the bed and the heavy brocade curtains – or drapes, as he called them – slid open automatically.

‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Now I can see what I’ve got for breakfast…’

And he made love to me again. Twice.

‘But I want to spend the day with you,’ he said. ‘Don’t go.’

‘I’d love to stay,’ I said, getting out of bed. ‘But it’s Thursday. It’s a workday. I have to go.’

‘Can’t you call in sick?’

I looked down at him lying there, all toffee-brown skin and white teeth and gorgeous. It was tempting, but I had stuff I needed to get on with at the office.

I had to put the last bit of polish on the celebrity brands story for my pages in the next day’s features section and I had a phone interview set up with the CEO of Gucci that afternoon about the new designer. Big stuff, in my world. But it wasn’t just that I had to go to work – I wanted to go.

I shook my head. ‘You can’t do that on a newspaper,’ I said. ‘My work won’t wait.’

I sat down on the bed again and put my arms around him.

‘I’ve had a wonderful time, Jay. It’s been great. I’d love to see you again soon.’

It was a lot more than I should have said if I was playing Ham’s teasing game properly, but it was how I felt. I was over the game.

‘You will,’ said Jay. ‘You totally will.’

But I didn’t. I had a text while I was at work that day – a text! – saying how great it had been and how he couldn’t wait to see me again and he’d call me soon. But he didn’t.

And I was so cross with him for sending me an impersonal text, rather than calling, I deleted it, so I didn’t even have his number. At that stage I still thought he would definitely ring me any minute, or I might have held on to it – but he didn’t.

After a few days, I just felt completely stupid. I couldn’t believe what had happened. I had been certain there was something special between me and Jay, and I didn’t know if I’d lost him by letting the game go and sleeping with him, or by playing the stupid game too long, when he clearly knew what I was up to.

Or maybe he hadn’t felt anything for me at all and it had all been just talk and another kind of game for him. Whichever it was, our little fling was clearly over and I was surprised how miserable I felt about it.

On top of that I was really dreading Ham asking me about him. I knew he would be ridiculously overexcited about the first boyfriend I had ever brought home, so I was deliberately avoiding him.

I worked long hours at the paper, declining all invitations to events after work – there was nothing big happening, so I could – and spent every evening at home, doing what I liked to do best when I was alone.

Curling up on my big brass bed in my silliest baby-doll nightie, and watching CNN and BBC World into the small hours.

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